


Bunshin

by fre



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Cultist Zenyatta, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Gore, Horror, M/M, WIP, dark fantasy AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2020-10-09 05:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fre/pseuds/fre
Summary: the dragon seeks an ancient god for a cure for a flesh eating curse





	1. Chapter 1

Night was falling by the time he entered the valley, closing the pale space between the land and the sun. He shuffled down a steep slope to a flat crevice concealed by foliage and set up camp. Already his legs were weakening, though soon the journey would be at its end. The flooded trenches of the valley below were the domain of The Cultist, The Haloed One.  
  
He could not feel the heat from the fire as he stoked the flames. There was a constant chill stinging his skin, crawling to the root of his bones. He rubbed the muscle in his forearm and felt something twist beneath the bandages. Red pinpricks surfaced.  
  
Without hesitating, Genji drew the wakizashi and, with a shaking hand, peeled the linen off, now stained with sweat and blood. His fingers trembled, less certain with every new section he cut away.  
  
He could not imagine such a thing could exist, even as he looked upon it, rotating his arm in the paltry light of the fire. Thin and finely threaded, it burrowed deep into the skin. The manifestation of an unspeakable nightmare.  
  
He worked tirelessly, his hands steady despite the heavy thrashing of his heart. When, at last, it seemed he had managed it, shrapnel glistening with blood in torn linen gathering at his feet, his eyes burning, Genji redressed the wound.  
  
His fingers ventured slightly, exploring where the affliction had emerged. Gently, he pressed against it, the unmistakable sensation beating through his fingertips.  
  
A human pulse.

Slow rain followed him into the valley. Summer had scorched the terrain in dark red and many branches were newly barren. Traveling the only path through the valley, he could easily spot footprints in the mud, all leading in the same direction, though he could not recall seeing any other travelers on the road ahead of him.  
  
He knew the danger of trifling with an elder god. The journey alone was perilous, through miles of barren desert and volcanic mountainsides, he had not given in to despair or fear, though it lingered in his mind. If he did not try to seek even some cure for this curse then death was certain.  
  
He stopped to rest more frequently than he intended, the numbness in his ankles worsened with the rain. The path was more level here and shelter was easier to find, though remaining for too long made him uncomfortable. Something was watching in the high branches, bold and searching, surely waiting for the right moment to strike. He walked with his eyes held low the rest of the way, trusting the path to guide him.  
  
Dense mist gathered at his feet. The road engulfed by water, a placid lake with a black pupil. He watched it buoy against the waves until blooming black and opaque. His heart twisted with the wires in his throat yet he knelt, leaning against Ryū Ichimonji.  
  
He would not turn and run from a god.  
  
Wind lifted through the trees, muffling the storm. Clouds darkened. He froze, its voice hollow and clear, the solitary sound of the valley.  
  
“Hmm,” it sighed, low like thunder, “such a strange trespasser.” There before him manifested several long, black shapes twisted together into a formidable mass, wreathed in golden light. Nine eyes opened to gaze upon him.  
  
He hid beneath his sugegasa, but spoke up. “I am Shimada Genji. I have traveled from the-”  
  
“I have been watching you since you entered my domain. There is no mistaking a necromancer's work. I wonder,” the god spoke, its eyes rotating confusedly, “what within this miserable creature refuses to die. Strange, indeed.”  
  
Genji gaped, struggling to explain himself. For a second he glanced up at the monstrous figure, a tower circled in light, and became too mystified to speak. Any explanation he had practiced on the road escaped him.  
  
“I was cursed. There is no living man who could remove this evil from my body. Please, listen to me. I do not wish to suffer any more.”  
  
“I have no interest in mortal afflictions. Regardless, there is no cure for this sort of curse. You are already at your journey's end.”  
  
“No,” Genji rebuked. “That is not true.”  
  
“Oh. You have some other plan? Some other place to crawl away and die?”  
  
Metal twisted in the tendons of his knuckles. “Surely there is something you can do to stop this- this parasite.”  
  
The Cultist pondered this for a moment. “I could snap your neck.”  
  
Sweat and rain ran down his shoulders, still Genji did not move. No matter what he would not show the fear and desperation that solidified the blood in his veins. “I would not allow you the satisfaction. You want to know _what_ it is that has kept me alive this long? I will show you only if you heal me from this curse.”  
  
“Fool. Did you not consider that I would siphon this spirit from the bones of your broken body? There is nothing you could tempt me with in order to change your fate. I could only offer you a merciful death.”  
  
“No,” he said, the contempt clear in his voice. He rose to his feet, finally facing that primordial stare. “I did not travel five hundred miles to be murdered. If you speak the truth, that you do not possess the knowledge I seek, then I understand. I have prepared for this moment.”  
  
Genji readied his sword to strike. Though his muscles had weakened and turned to synthetic coils, he would not cower before the face of death. “I will not accept defeat without a fight.”  
  
“You wish to fight?” The Cultist beamed, though his tone quickly flattened. “That would not be fair. Not in your condition.”  
  
“I have no other choice. I will not lay down and die.”  
  
“How admirable,” his opponent answered, his nine eyed halo rotating, the golden light turning to poisonous violet. “Your will is stronger than I thought. Let's see what will end it.”  
  
The Cultist thrust one of his orbs forward only for Genji to immediately deflect it back. The orb bounced indignantly off The Cultist's brow before spinning back into formation, another orb flying towards him. Genji sent this one back too, the momentum heavy enough to cause both of them to recoil.  
  
The Cultist swayed on his tentacles, regaining proper balance. Genji's knee buckled, the softened earth folding against his boot. Now was the opportunity to strike, lunging into the water with a wild scream only to be snatched up by a tentacle, suspending him by his haori. Genji wriggled loose, slashing erratically until falling into the lake.  
  
“Unhand me,” Genji demanded, his sword still poised.  
  
“You have some skill, Shimada. I have not been challenged in nine hundred years.” The tentacle's grip tightened. “Perhaps there is some use of you after all.”  
  
“Our fight is not yet over,” he insisted.  
  
The purple light vanished, absorbed back into the eyes around his neck. The aura of destruction left The Cultist. “I am ending it here. I cannot deny my own fascination any longer. You are a rare sort of creature. Perhaps this is an opportunity to study necromancy's effect on mortals.”  
  
Genji lowered his weapon. “Then you will help me?”  
  
“As much as I am able. Though I was not lying earlier, Shimada Genji. There is no cure for this parasitic curse,” The Cultist said. The eyes traveled over him, finding what little appeared to be unwrapped by gauze. “There does not seem to be much left to save.”  
  
Blush crossed his scowl, struggling and demanding to be released. The Cultist kindly placed him down to gather his belongings. Watching the swordsman redress himself, adjusting the goggles against his mask, The Cultist felt a quick spark of endearment, just a splinter of empathy for this new fascination.  
  
“You may dry off at the shrine. It's not far from here,” The Cultist offered.  
  
Genji thanked him, wading beside the elder god, finding the water pleasantly cool against his sore muscles. Loose shrapnel was already rusting across his limbs. Soon the heavy ache would be gone.  
  
White sky crinkled in empty branches. Their blood red leaves cast out like open palms across the vast water. For a while they traveled in silence and steadily Genji fell behind, following the towering shape in the fog. His legs were tired from the previous days' journey and the water was quickly rising.  
  
“Hey,” Genji called out, feeling very lost already, “how deep is this lake?”  
  
“There is a vast trench at the center, miles below the sea level. Deeper than any human body could withstand. I have lived in this valley for nearly a century.” Nine eyes watched this man grow more distant, washed over by layers of fog. The Cultist slowed down. “It is not much further.”  
  
Genji shivered. He followed methodically, losing focus in the rippling water. At any moment his legs might give, sending him into the endless abyss of an ancient god.  
  
A singular shape formed across the lake, where the fog swirled magnetically. A dark monolith waited ominously on the shore. A slate pillar with an eye carved into its peak stood surrounded by flood water. Moss and soil coated its the base, crawling further up the stone.  
  
Wind moved lightly along the mist, disturbing the wind chimes that formed the pupils of the eye. Strange notes that creaked discordantly, like glass against metal.  
  
The shrine was nestled into a high slope, hidden among the trees. An old structure, its thin walls and wide roof so out of place in this valley. Eerie, as though frozen in time.  
  
Genji coughed, tight nerves morphed beneath his burning skin, tugging on his throat. Blood dotted his palms. He let the blood run down into the water.  
  
The Cultist dipped below the surface, compacting his shape to lead his guest into the shelter.  
  
The shrine was a wide, dark room, partitioned from the narrow entrance by a stone wall. Crumpled debris lay strewn in the far corner, the remnants of old reed mats and the ashen stains of a fire. The whole place smelled strongly of seaweed. In the opposite corner, puddles formed under the weakest parts of the roof. The echoing droplets seemed to be getting louder, faster.  
  
“Perhaps it has been more than a century since I have last been here,” he said. “I'm afraid I have nothing better to offer.”  
  
“As long as there is shelter from the rain, I will be fine,” Genji said, setting his bag down. Just sitting down was a great relief and Genji leaned back.  
  
“I will return later. For now, you may rest,” The Cultist said, before turning down the path and disappearing into the lake.  
  
Genji peeked over his shoulder, watching The Cultist's descent through the trees. Nine pupils rolled back and locked his gaze, dilating.  
  
Alone, Genji curled up, catching his breath. The raw wires in his throat were constricting. He wondered if it was truly safe to let his guard down here. Even behind walls, a deep sense of paranoia clouded him, doubting their agreement.  
  
He focused on unpacking his supplies, despite the same doubt still lingering in his mind. All that remained of his rations were stale and he couldn't remember the last time he had felt hungry. His coat had been thoroughly soaked by the rain, as well as his pants and shoes. He peeled each garment off and, having no place to dry them, set them over his sugegasa.  
  
Under such poor light, Genji could hardly tell what parts of his body were still his own. Wet linen clung to the contorted wounds, fresh and dried blood mingling. He unwrapped a wool blanket and huddled beneath it.  
  
He slept in brief shifts, never deep enough to awaken feeling rested. The rain had subsided and winds had shuffled pale mist into the shrine like a ghostly herd of sheep, safe within their paddock. It was almost completely dark inside the shrine, but Genji doubted he could start a fire here. He felt sicker than before, heat swelling against his skull.  
  
He loosened the wrapping over his jaw and drank what little was left in his canteen. While he searched his bag for something to collect rain water in, The Cultist returned, materializing from the fog.  
  
“You could at least announce yourself first,” Genji growled, after cursing vehemently. He dropped everything back into the bag and hastily retied the bandages.  
  
“My apologies. I assumed you were expecting me,” The Cultist said. “Are you removing your bandages?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“You should remove them. How else will I know what sort of curse we are dealing with?”  
  
“Not now. I'm not feeling well.”  
  
“If that is the case, then you might never remove them. Though you do indeed seem unwell.”  
  
“Yes, and I need more time to rest. I'd prefer to be alone,” Genji said, finding it difficult to hide the patience he was losing. “If you were half as wise as you claim to be, you would leave.”  
  
“You would be more intimidating, Shimada, if you were not dying of a fever,” The Cultist snapped. “Why waste any time over such an inevitable outcome? Perhaps you think it would mean more to die hesitating.”  
  
That silenced Genji. He sat frozen, unsure how to respond. His mouth was so dry he thought he might choke. Speaking meant nothing, the only thing that could please The Cultist was to expose these wounds.  
  
Slowly, he untied the linen wrapping and steadied himself upright. “So it is inevitable then. No, I will never hesitate.”  
  
He grabbed his bag and moved outside. Dark woodland and darker water swallowed the valley, nothing but a distant moon for light. Looking up, it was as though he was stranded at the bottom of steep vessel, its walls growing too tall to ever escape.  
  
Genji did not realize he was crying, sensing what he thought was rain on his lower lip. Through the linen and iron, he could still taste the salt of tears. The lump in his throat rose, crowded among the wires. Again, he started coughing, the stress enough to make his skull burst.  
  
It was a mistake to come here, he realized. A mistake to want to live, to want anything at all. Thinking that made him cry more, cough harder.  
  
Genji staggered, blood rushing to his head, and began moving toward the lake. Why bother suffering any longer, especially for the entertainment of a god, if he could simply end the curse himself. If he could walk far enough, he would sink endlessly into the abyss. He flexed his fingers, feeling the odd tension between the wires. At least dying meant an end to this nightmare.  
  
Some other force grabbed him, pulling him back. A tentacle coiled around his wounded arm and he winced, but did not struggle.  
  
“What are you thinking? Foolish little mortal,” The Cultist spoke, more annoyed than enraged. “Perhaps this valley is driving you to madness. How else would you have become so negligent of your own health?”  
  
Genji demanded to be let go, grinding his heels into the muddy earth.  
  
“What is it that frightens you, if not a god?” The Cultist asked. He loosened his grasp, waiting for an answer. “You cannot say. It seemed to me, earlier you were afraid of death, yet now you choose to embrace it.”  
  
“Stop this. Stop pulling on me,” he yelled with splintered vocal cords, as The Cultist drew him back into the shelter. “I did nothing to deserve this.”  
  
“Why allow yourself to succumb to it? You cannot heal if you destroy yourself.” He could feel the unnatural pace of Genji's breathing and with it, the very same stab of empathy he had noticed earlier. “You should be resting. If I am correct, you have still not eaten.”  
  
Genji only nodded.  
  
“I believe I owe you an apology. You were right, Shimada, such an exchange must be freely given. I have over stepped our agreement,” he relaxed his grasp, confident Genji wouldn't run.  
  
Genji put distance between them, rubbing the tears into the blanket. Though he loathed to forgive him, it would not be wise to anger to an elder god.  
  
“It is fine. As long as there is mutual respect between us, there is no need to apologize.” Still, he did not turn around to address him, but rather sat down on his bedroll facing the wall, resuming the coalescence he should have never interrupted.  
  
“I could build you a fire, if you'd like. You certainly need to dry off more,” The Cultist offered. His tone had changed, more reassuring than before.  
  
“In here? It's too wet for a fire.”  
  
In his peripherals, a pale green light grew more intense, and their shadows stretched like banners over the walls. Genji peeked, horrified by the flaming halo twisting itself into a perfect ball of fire. The Cultist held it in his hands as though it was only a fragile bird. For just a second, he saw the awe and terror in Genji's wide eyes, before they flashed away.  
  
“Surely, after all you have suffered from, this does not confuse you,” The Cultist said. “I have studied other subjects than medicine and necromancy.”  
  
“I was just surprised by it, that's all. It's very impressive.” There was nothing in voice to suggest any real emotion.  
  
He was only beginning to feel the warmth permeate the linen bandages, touching the thinner cables of his spine. The flame hovered close to Genji, just hot enough to soothe his muscles and dry off the rain. He unwrapped the muddied bandages while The Cultist set up a pot of water to boil.  
  
“I have mastered alchemy as well,” he said, stirring various ingredients into the cauldron. Wild onions, diced scallops, garlic, and lemongrass. “I think you will find it tastes no different from the cuisine of your village.”  
  
“I'm sure you are quite skilled, but my home is very far away from here.”  
  
The soup certainly smelled good, but he was still concerned about the original nature of its contents. Steam wafted against his bandaged jaw, tasting of a sour, but savory medley. It was nothing like anything he had eaten before, but still felt satisfied after eating it.  
  
Still sore from their disagreement, Genji drew his wakizashi, focused his nervous hands on sharpening its edge. He was not sure yet if he could trust this god with his blade or his body and he was beginning to consider performing any amputations himself.  
  
“I think we have waited long enough. It would be best to assess the damage while there is still time,” The Cultist suggested. He drew closer, bringing the light with him.  
  
Genji untied the linen himself, starting at the ankle and unraveling upward to expose the tangle of bleeding muscle and corroded metal. He flexed and felt nothing at all, not even the dark rivulets running from the open wounds.  
  
Layer peeling off of layer, there seemed to be less and less of him. In such clear light, the absence of anything, flesh and bone or otherwise, was so painfully apparent. Gaps bridged by clotting blood, smears that had dried in the crevices of bolts and screws. He could not even give a name to the strange cables and brackets that replaced nerves and tendons, as though they were from a different world entirely.  
  
“Surely, of everything you've studied, _this_ does not disturb you, eh?” Genji asked, his mock confidence faltering. He coughed several more times.  
  
“It is quite unpleasant, yes. A miracle it has not consumed you yet,” The Cultist observed. “Who is to say what will happen if it reaches your brain.”  
  
Genji bit down on his tongue, unraveling the long trails of stained gauze and linen- bandages he had acquired in various settlements along his journey. Unwrapping his right arm unveiled the mangled remains of his tattoo- threads of bright emerald and orange now splintered by rusted overgrowth.  
  
The bandages coiled like flayed skin and soaking them turned the water black. With only the wrappings that held his jaw together remained, for the first time fully viewing the nightmarish contraption that had replaced his body, consumed him. Holding his breath, the mechanisms also held, quieted, almost sedated, save for the slow rhythm of a human pulse.  
  
The largest wound split diagonally from his shoulder to his rib, narrowly missing his heart. Below that was plated with steel and mesh, fabricated from blood and tissue.  
  
“This must be the source. Come closer. Let me see,” The Cultist said, summoning new limbs, more than enough to complete the task.  
  
He reluctantly obeyed. All nine eyes blinked over him, though their stare was less menacing than before, Genji could not match their gaze for long.  
  
“Structure seems to be mostly tempered steel. The nodes take root and form cables from a single main line- seems to mimic the properties of human muscle and nerves. The main mechanism is growing out from here.” He tapped Genji's chest, just above the wound. “Must be a single switch to turn off the whole circuit.”  
  
“How do you know that will not kill me?”  
  
The Cultist thought for a moment. “It would only deactivate the mechanisms. Your heart and brain will keep you alive. You should function as normal once the power is restored.”  
  
“I don't like that plan. Everything you said is confusing to me.”  
  
“You can dislike it all you want, Shimada. There is no other way to stop its growth without disconnecting the main frame. You will not feel a thing.”  
  
“No. That's not fair. How do I know you will not deceive me for your own gain? How can I trust you to restore my body?”  
  
“You came to me seeking help. I already told you the cure would not be easy.”  
  
“You said there was no cure at all!”  
  
“I spoke truthfully. This is not a cure. You will never return to the man you once were, but there is still a chance to stop this parasite from spreading. Even now, it is reaching to control you completely.” His voice became softer, less confrontational. It was clear to him now what the intentions were of the individual who had created this curse. Their work was nearly finished.  
  
“Is there nothing else you can do?” Genji had also fallen quiet, his voice hoarse and tired. He could read something behind all those eyes- remorse, perhaps.  
  
“Waiting any longer would be deadly.”  
  
“You know what you are doing, right? This is not simply a guess?”  
  
“Not at all. You see, I created this curse.”  
  
“Y-you... what?”  
  
“It was not meant to be used like this. Understand, Shimada, that even in the language of your oldest ancestors the word 'god' does not accurately describe me. In order to maintain this form in the valley, to speak and interact as any living being, I chose to mummify myself in tempered steel. I am as old as the abyss, but I was not meant to last as long.  
  
“I record all of my experiments and, not long ago, some pieces of an older archive were stolen. I believe the curse's details may have been among them.”  
  
Genji was completely silent.  
  
The Cultist continued to examine him, turning his right arm over in the light to appraise the disfigured image of the dragon.  
  
“It was impossible to recognize at first, or maybe because I have not thought of that curse in more than nine hundred years. Even the most durable metals could not break me, but no mortal being could survive such an ordeal. You are truly something else, Shimada, to have endured it this long. It would be cruel to make you suffer any longer.”  
  
“Then I must trust you. My life is in your hands,” he said, sinking back down.  
  
“It may be a few hours until you are able to regain control of your body again. You will not feel anything.”  
  
He nodded and handed The Cultist his wakizashi. “You will need this.”  
  
His fingers grasped the hilt, metal clasping metal wound with cloth. The blade was intensely sharp, crafted from dark steel. The cloth was stained by its owner's blood.  
  
“I will treat it with as much respect as your own body. You have my word.”  
  
Then he reached deep within the broken tissue, searching for a small switch buried in the shrapnel of his sternum. Genji hissed, the pain cracking at the edges of his heart, until he could feel nothing below his waist. His right arm lay limp at his side; the dragon lifeless.  
  
He gazed mournfully upon his left arm. This was the most unimaginable nightmare and one he could never wake up from. An unusual sort of torture, to be stripped of one's own autonomy from the inside out, replaced with hollow parts. Genji opened his mouth to speak and there was only air and silence.  
  
The Cultist pressed his fingers to Genji's neck, finding a pulse, active despite his fatigue. He clutched back, his every effort focused for something even so small as the curling of a finger.  
  
“Deeper breaths, my friend. You will have to work harder to inflate your lungs.” He was gentle, Genji noticed, working over his body inch by inch, deciding where exactly to begin. Still, Genji grew more wary with every screw loosened.  
  
The hours passed. The Cultist worked diligently, adjusting misshapen pieces and loose nodes. His own mechanical hands performed the operation, while several tentacles assisted him. There were pieces to be discarded, notes to be taken. With nothing to distract him, Genji watched in awe the synchronized pattern of each arm and each eye, balancing separate tasks in harmony.  
  
Cutting closer on the main wires caused sparks to shoot out, freckling their close quarters with fizzling light. Genji watched intently, his gaze moving from The Cultist's dominant hand to his face, waiting for some hopeful look to appear on the otherwise sinister face of a god.  
  
Now that the curse had rewired his vocal cords, he was unable to speak. In silence, he imagined he was controlling The Cultist, moving every knuckle on invisible strings. He was surprised, if not mesmerized by the gentleness of his hands, the precision of his movements.  
  
“Something you wish to say?”  
  
Genji nodded. With two fingers he motioned to his eyes, dragging downward.  
  
The Cultist cocked his head, the halo cycling restlessly around him. He looked down, where he had obviously been looking this entire time. Genji frowned, batting at an eyeball that crept a bit too far down. His open palm became a fist.  
  
“What? You are sad?” He despised this inability to fully communicate, but knew Genji despised it more.  
  
Genji shook his head, his glare intense, but hollowed by dark circles. He gestured again, blinking.  
  
“Oh you're tired. I haven't even started soldering yet.”  
  
His fingers flattened, swiping from his neck to his chest. His energy and strength was depleted, pulse steadily failing, now a constant sense of urgency shared between them. Still, The Cultist would not show his concern outwardly.  
  
“We cannot delay any longer. You see the damage that's already been done.”  
  
Genji shook his head, the anger still fresh in his fevered glare.  
  
“It would be dangerous to do this continuously. Do not make this decision hastily. There is no certainty that you will survive disconnecting a second time.”  
  
He knew that, but it was hard to think clearly with the drum of his own heartbeat ringing in his ears. Breath freezing on his lips, Genji nodded off, just for a moment, only to be awoken by wide spears of ice breaching the walls of the shrine, the loud crackle of frost under pressure. The structure groaned as every inch became carpeted in ice. Black water encased his swords, the nine eyed halo, The Cultist, all frozen in place.  
  
Genji reached out, cupping an eye in his palm, the chill stinging skin that was not really there. He stood up, the mechanisms whirring loudly, his height almost even with The Cultist, now a statue before him. For once, he could look closely into his eyes, like two glossy mirrors, and wondered if this was what it was like in the abyss.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Nothing but himself.  
  
Static quivered in his muscles. He stepped away. Icy darkness surrounded him and the longer he remained the more it unnerved him. Genji peeked out from the entryway, finding the entire valley coated in ice. A distant trill of wind chimes. White mist ringed the lake.  
  
He ventured a bit further, mostly to investigate the statue outside the shrine. Layers of ice formed over the eye as though a decade of winter had passed over the valley. He ventured closer to the lake and the mist opened like a curtain, the moonlight blindingly intense. He slid, still shielding his eyes, waiting to catch his breath.  
  
A bolt in his shoulder dislodged, clattering and disappearing in the mist. The arm hung awkwardly, its nerves still twitching and moving at his command. With his hand, the only hand left that truly was his, he held his jaw in place, as it too tore from its hinge. Genji continued on, now that it seemed clear that the light was not fading.  
  
Metal supports caved at the knee, spilling parts across the ice. He could only crawl, weighted by a heavy pressure caving against his spine. Over the epicenter of the lake, the light was strong enough to pierce the dark water, and he could see below the ice, his own scattered limbs, bone and flesh and wire caught among the rocks. Below that still, the pitch black abyss.  
  
“You can stop running now. No use fighting it any more.”  
  
Genji jumped, horrified and yet too exhausted to react. The voice was unmistakable, fear creeping through his veins and freezing. Everything he had run from, the past he had buried was resurfacing.  
  
“Now I know,” he answered. “There is no escape from death. But I thought...” He stared down at his crumbling hand. Was there no chance of becoming human again? No other fate than to disappear entirely?  
  
“You are mistaken, my son. Your journey is not yet over.” Voices of the dead dragged closer, as if creeping out of the ice and into his skull. “The dragon does not surrender.”  
  
_ Then I must look like a coward to you_, he thought, too paralyzed to say it. If only his own brother's sword had sunk deeper into his heart he could at least be comforted by death.  
  
His other shoulder relaxed, sensing it disconnect from the spine. His head also sloped unnaturally once the bolts sprang loose. He closed his eyes, waiting for the nightmare to end.  
  
“There is no denying this any longer. It will tear you apart if you allow it.”  
  
A long crack formed below him, the sound like bones breaking under stress. He was completely motionless, and yet his pounding heart seemed to sink him deeper into the ice, like a nail driven down by a hammer. He looked down to meet his own reflection with abject horror.  
  
A hollow socket gazed back.

Genji awoke, a sharp breath piercing his lungs, sharp enough to revive him. He was in the shrine again, still prostrate, as if only a minute had passed. The numbness in his hands scattered, sensation returning in waves of static lighting up the innumerable strands of circuitry that had replaced his nerves.  
  
He broke free of The Cultist's tentacle, constricted around his chest, cursing and tripping over himself. Just seconds ago, this body was crumbling, pieces trailing in the ice, and now all of it had vanished. He had been completely reassembled, minus the bandages, with all the wires trimmed and connected properly.  
  
“It seems you have your voice back,” The Cultist said. “It took a great deal of effort to reconstruct your vocal cords. I'm pleased your first instinct was to immediately... test them.”  
  
Genji quieted, somewhat embarrassed, and clutched his neck. A seam reached from the base of his throat to his mandible, its texture smooth and consistent. The blurriness in his vision cleared, finally viewing the full frame of his body. The rod that split his forearm had been filed down to the elbow, the inner muscle patched and healing.  
  
His hand fell. “It must have taken you hours.”  
  
“Not quite that long. For you it must have seemed like only a second.”  
  
Genji ignored that. “You are staring.”  
  
“I am simply admiring my own handiwork.” Spare tentacles readjusted the hood of his cloak. “Perhaps you would also like to see the outcome.”  
  
“Don't think I haven't forgotten. Though you are not the one who cut me, you are still responsible for this curse.”  
  
“I did not inflict this upon you. Your vengeance is misdirected,” he answered plainly. Intrigue glinted in his many eyes. “If you are trying to say you owe me nothing, you are wrong, Shimada. There is still much more work to be done before you can start paying off this debt. There are still adjustments to be made to your-”  
  
“I am not paying you anything. I did not agree to that.”  
  
“You agreed to be studied.”  
  
“Fuck that.” Anger modulated his voice. “You can call it anything you want, but what you are suggesting is imprisonment. I have already given you more than what was owed.”  
  
“It's impossible to not argue with you, Shimada. You will need to heal completely before running off and until then you ought to stay here. I will provide you with basic necessities and, in return, you will allow me to continue my study.”  
  
“No, no more agreements. I can find my own shelter,” he said, quickly grabbing his clothing and other belongings.  
  
“You are too stubborn to see that it is the very same deal as before,” The Cultist said, watching with folded arms as he rolled up his bedding and stuffed it away. “You must have something very pressing to return to- a family perhaps.”  
  
“No. I have no home or family to return to, but I will not remain here.”  
  
“I see. A life of wandering suits you. Please, do not forget your bandages. They should be dry by now.”  
  
He rushed out of the shrine, invigorated only by the prospect of freedom, when white strands masked his vision. On a line in the entry way, the bandages, now clean, swayed like peeled ghosts in the wind.  
  
It was a great relief to stretch and breathe without the constricting gauze, but he realized how exposed he was without them. Even with the haori and all his other gear, his metal plated face and hand were the most obvious signs of the affliction.  
  
Nothing had changed. He could live and control this body, but never reintegrate into society.  
  
Never return home.  
  
Never exact revenge.  
  
Never find peace.  
  
Genji pulled down a long strand and knelt, setting his pack down. He wrapped the layers one over the other, leaving just enough space between his nose and mouth, and knotted it at the neck. The Cultist's shadow crossed him.  
  
“It was never my intention for this valley to be a prison to you. You are free to leave, if you choose to do so. While you are healing, it would be best if you were to remain here,” The Cultist answered, his tone so different now, utterly composed, so confident in his honesty. “I like you, Shimada. I am fascinated by the dragon spirit within you.”  
  
He squeezed fistfuls of grass. “How could you know about that?”  
  
“It was the only thing keeping you alive. My own efforts were superficial,” he said. There was a certain note of humility, one that even surprised himself, to sign his own disappointment. He wished to say more, but did not. “There is still much we could learn from each other.”  
  
Genji said nothing, letting cold dew run between his knuckles.  
  
Memories of that dream lingered in his mind. The valley corrupted by ice and darkness, too real to have been a dream. He could still feel how close he had come to disappearing entirely, that hollow ache in his chest. The sun was rising now, wind playing with the chimes.  
  
“I have much to consider. For now, I would like to be alone.”  
  
The Cultist turned down the path, laying the wakizashi down beside him, its blade wiped clean. He could still feel the weight in his hands, an empty burden growing within him. Regret and confusion played with intrigue. Yet above all his thoughts were consumed by the bizarre nature of the creature that had gored him.  
  
Concealed by the dense woodland, he withdrew his injured hand from his cloak. The palm was split between the thumb and index finger, exposing black coated wires and sparks. Crushed knuckles curled together, clutching at nothing. It was as though Genji's shadow had taken its own shape- a pale vapor armored with teeth and talons.  
  
He could still feel the intensity searing in his eyes, the heated electricity building like a storm. The mechanism would heal. Even as he floated to the bottom of the abyss, he could still sense the phantom teeth dragging him down.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what a horrible night to have a curse

It rained for several days, each time the sky grew darker, the winds colder. The Cultist only appeared at sunset, briefly dropping in with various supplies. They spoke very little and only out of courtesy. Each time The Cultist would ask if he needed anything and each time Genji refused.  
  
Usually he would leave, dissatisfied with their blunt interaction, but this time The Cultist invited himself into the shrine. Genji's belongings had moved to the left corner, closer to the entrance. The puddle under the weakest part of the roof stretched the full length of the room. Water continued to drip.  
  
“Surely you have made a decision by now,” he said. Upon entering, he had noted the way Genji had packed up his bedroll and other basic necessities. His swords leaned against the wall beside him.  
  
“Yes. I would like to leave,” Genji answered. His own eyes could only meet the floating orbs of the halo, hesitant to address The Cultist directly. “I am only waiting for the storms to pass.”  
  
“The rainy season has only begun, Shimada. It might be a long wait.”  
  
He drew his knees up, huddling in the warmth of his haori. “I can be patient. As soon as the weather clears I will be gone.”  
  
“I see. Perhaps you will allow me to escort you out of the valley. It would be impolite otherwise.”  
  
Genji fidgeted, still avoiding The Cultist's gaze. These uncomfortable interactions angered him, but fever had smothered the fire inside him to embers. “You cannot persuade me to stay... but I won't leave without saying good-bye.”  
  
“That is fine. It was a rather dry summer. We shall wait together,” he said and glided closer, gently touching Genji's hand. “Until then we should begin making necessary repairs.”  
  
Still apprehensive, Genji flinched. “Not necessary. I can heal on my own.”  
  
Without warning, the halo scattered, orbs clattering to the ground, rolling and splashing in different directions. The Cultist relaxed his shoulders. “I know you want nothing to do with me, Shimada. You cannot endure everything alone.”  
  
The orbs rolled back into formation, following as he exited the shrine. Genji let him disappear without a second glance.  
  
There truly was no cure for this transformative curse and The Cultist was only another recurring symptom, almost as insufferable as this mechanical body. He was sure he could never be comfortable in this valley or in even in his own skin again.  
  
Genji laid out his bedroll, settling in for the evening. Nausea had kept him awake at night, and he spent restless hours thinking about that strange dream. He could still feel the agony of falling apart, yet where The Cultist had touched produced no sensation.  
  
In the dark, he looked over his body, wondering what had changed inside of him. He knew he had not taken proper care of himself during the journey, due mostly to his hesitance to remove the bandages. His external wounds were healing, but he still felt fatigued. He considered eating the last of the food The Cultist had brought him, but sickness wallowed in his stomach.  
  
From atop the hill, he could hear the wind chimes rattling violently. The storm was picking up, tearing across the water, bending trees. Above him, the roof shook, dropping dusty tiles to the ground. Genji braced the wall.  
  
Wind whipped across the distant lake, tearing through the trees, carrying the screams of the chimes below. The mist scattered. Rain drummed on the weak structure, ripples dancing across the puddle at the center of his room.  
  
Genji drew back, gazing up. One loud crack of lightning pierced the roof, cutting down a wide section of wood and unleashing a deluge of tiles and icy rain.  
  
He jumped back, feeling the pulsing electricity needling in his veins, trembling from the ground up. Despite the sporadic paralysis, he grabbed everything he owned and retreated into the corner. Cold wind intruded, bringing leaves and dust, while rain steadily flooded the shrine.  
  
Genji froze, suddenly unsure if this was his reality, or another nightmare. He touched his face but felt nothing.  
  
With little time to spare, Genji fled down the road, carefully, as much of the path had been swallowed by rain. By the time he reached the shore, he was already soaked.  
  
A thick haze covered the area, the horizon saturated by the mass of dark clouds. His heart raced, losing hope with each step, realizing his mistake. He had come to the lake seeking The Cultist, but did not know how to summon him. Shouting was futile, his voice smothered by the winds, and with an unfathomable distance between them. He did not even know The Cultist's real name, after all.  
  
Genji clutched at his haori, crouching down in the sand. Setting up a tent in this weather, even a lean to, would inevitably be blown to pieces.  
  
The best option, he concluded, would be to return to the higher ground and build a shelter outside the shrine. Thunder growled low in agreement.  
  
When Genji stood, he found himself immediately thrown forward. The sound of glass and metal colliding was muffled by the gust that had thrown him. For a moment he guessed something had fallen off this body, shattering beneath his weight. He rose, wind thrashing his back, finding the pieces of the wind chime strewn in the grass. Scuffed, but not broken, though the cord they hung from was torn.  
  
There were twelve pieces, but he counted them twice before tucking them into his bag. It was the only moment he could catch his breath, crouching beneath the monolith. He bundled the pieces in twos, wrapped them in spare gauze.  
  
The looming shadow of the monolith took new form, branching out to submerge the world in darkness. There was no mistaking the unrelenting gaze of the halo as it fell upon him. Genji turned, finding The Cultist waiting at the shoreline, waves thrashing against him.  
  
“Did the storm wake you?” The Cultist asked, ascending the shore. The monolith seemed diminutive by comparison. “Are you alright?”  
  
“The shrine collapsed. It's completely flooded,” Genji explained. The wind was swallowing his voice.  
  
The eyes moved over him, crouched over his open bag. Lightning flashed across their expanding pupils.  
  
“I just need somewhere else to stay for the night.”  
  
“There is nothing else I can offer you. You would drown if I brought you below the lake. You would spend all night searching for a cave.”  
  
Genji dropped his shoulders, agonizing frustration settling in. Another sleepless night awaited him. There would not even be a safe place to dry off.  
  
His silence surprised The Cultist, sure that he would unleash his temper. Yet Genji remained still, rain dripping off the brim of his hat.  
  
“A shame to lose such an old shrine. I think I would like to see how much damage was done. You're not planing on spending the night here, are you?”  
  
They followed the path up the hill, despite the pelting rain, with Genji tagging along at a distance. In the dark, he tripped on the wet foliage but kept pace with The Cultist's growing shadow. He could see there was a faint glow to the halo floating around him.  
  
The damage did not look as bad from the outside. The main structure was still intact, now with several more broken branches and debris scattered around it. A wide hole, like a gaping maw, gouged the roof, the broken portion hanging by a fragile hinge. It creaked as the wind brushed against it, shuddering the tiles.  
  
“I'm glad you sought my help,” The Cultist said, pleased at this first sign of trust. Glancing over the pool that had once been a puddle, he could understand Genji fleeing from the valley.  
  
The roof could certainly not be fixed in this weather. For now, a temporary repair would suffice. Long tentacles emerged from his cloak, lifting the broken piece and holding it fast. Rain and thunder were reduced to muffled noise.  
  
The eyes turned to the doorway, finding Genji's forlorn stare lingering in the water, his state unchanged. He was still shivering, still lost in his own exhaustion, no doubt despaired by unfortunate circumstances. The water, still pouring in, was higher than his ankles.  
  
“It might be a while before the shrine dries completely. There is still room for you here, if you like.” The Cultist opened his arms, his crossed legs hovering a few feet above the water.  
  
Genji balked, angry and a bit flustered. He hid beneath his sugegasa. “No. I don't want to be touched. It's bad enough that I can't be alone.”  
  
“You will be soaked anywhere else, too.”  
  
“It's fine. I doubt if I'd be able to sleep at all tonight.”  
  
“Still, you should rest your body, whether you choose to sleep or not.”  
  
Genji distracted himself quietly, letting his eyes float about the room, unwilling to meet with those of The Cultist. The strain on his muscles was unbearable, inciting unfamiliar pain in his wires. All this stress was physically taxing him, just days out of the operation.  
  
Perhaps this was some sort of trick, or perhaps The Cultist was just as lonely as himself. He brushed that away with a scowl. Of course ancient gods did not feel such things.  
  
_This probably means nothing to him_, he thought. _Anything to get me to stay._  
  
Genji crossed the water, gripping tattered robes as he pulled himself into The Cultist's lap. He was drier than expected, as though the rain never touched him.  
  
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said, noticing Genji's awkward position.  
  
Genji shrugged the haori off, draping it over his bag. With everything soaked, it felt as though his belongings had doubled in weight. Still, The Cultist held it effortlessly in the palm of his hand.  
  
Genji muttered a terse thank you, curling up in the crook of The Cultist's knee.  
  
“Sleep well, my friend,” he said, wrapping the hem of his cloak around Genji. It was tattered and smelled of cedar and lake water but it was warm and dry. It did not take long for him to fall asleep.  
  
While the dragon slumbered, The Cultist remained vigilant. He found all of his eyes drifting to Genji as though magnetically drawn to his body. He looked so peaceful, his dark brows relaxed for what seemed like the first time.  
  
There would be dire consequences if Genji knew just how long he was staring. Despite no longer bleeding, he still wore the bandages, completely covering any visible metal. The edges of new scar tissue poked out from the linen, a jagged tear reaching his hairline. His bandaged jaw slackened, soft breaths escaping. He noticed the way Genji crossed his arms, his knees curled close to his chest.  
  
In the dark, The Cultist remained, remembering how the shrine looked in the past. Though torn and abandoned, he could sense it was returning to its former state, now that Genji was here at least. He only recognized his own loneliness now that there was someone else to fill the absence.  
  
At the first sign of light, Genji roused, turning over to bury himself in the dark wool. He intended on sleeping late to compensate for last night's struggle, only to find himself unable to relax, his mind too active.  
  
He wondered what he had done to deserve this. Once so apathetic, now The Cultist was willing to protect him, even sacrifice his own body to shelter him. Genji dragged his fingers over his temples, muting the ringing in his ears. The confusion was eating through him.  
  
This journey should have ended in his death, but where it had brought him was some place else entirely.  
  
The cloaked pulled away from him.  
  
“My apologies. I thought you might suffocate.”  
  
“I was still sleeping,” he grumbled. “I could have freed myself if I wanted.”  
  
“Well, since you are awake now, you ought to have breakfast,” he said, sure that Genji would dodge the suggestion. “We have much to do while the skies are clear.”  
  
Genji agreed, surveying the mote that surrounded them. The Cultist did not seem to mind, setting Genji's bag down in front of him. There were mushrooms and berries left over from foraging. He unwrapped his jaw before eating.  
  
“You don't seem to eat much,” The Cultist commented, clearly worried.  
  
“I don't need as much. I'm not like other humans any more,” his answered, dismayed.  
  
“You are still human, my friend,” he said. Impossible for him to ignore such concerning behavior. “You are going to make yourself sick again.”  
  
Genji paused, using his hat to mask his face. He turned around and flatly spoke. “Why do you care, any way? This has more to do with _me_ than studying my body. Why else would you do so much for me?”  
  
The Cultist cocked his head. “Hmm? You are right to have your suspicions. You see, men who created this shrine worshiped me and since their passing this valley has been empty. I greatly miss their adoration. I cannot be a god without a congregation.”  
  
For what felt like the first time, he looked closely into Genji's eyes, their contact more than palpable, as though this man was gazing through him.  
  
“You are lying.”  
  
“Not entirely. I will admit I feel partly responsible for inadvertently cursing you. I do not wish to see you die, Shimada.”  
  
“But you lied before. You said you had no interest in mortals.”  
  
“It is hard to judge their worthiness. I said that to a stranger, not a friend.”  
  
Genji's glare sharpened, as quick and as deadly as his blade. He jumped down, carelessly splashing up water. “We are not friends and I will certainly not worship you. Don't think this has changed my mind. I am still leaving the valley.”  
  
“Of course,” The Cultist said. “Until then, will you not help me fix my shrine?”  
  
Genji grumbled, unhappily kicking up water. It would be impolite to refuse, he knew. Not to mention this marked the second occasion that The Cultist had saved him.  
  
The tentacles retracted, showering them with rain, dust, and chipped tiles. Hardly bothered, The Cultist inspected the gap in the roof, while the orbs blinked out soot and rain.  
  
“The main supports are still stable. We might only need to patch these two beams.” With one hand, he pried the nails from the splintered wood, bending them back into shape as if they were soft as clay.  
  
“I will hold the roof together while you hammer down the nails,” The Cultist said and offered his hand.  
  
A pale crease in his palm caught Genji's eye, the exposed wires faintly glowing. “You are wounded.”  
  
“It's only a small cut,” he explained, flexing and curling the fingers. “Soon to be an imperceptible scar.”  
  
“You should leave your hand to heal. I can reach the top on my own.” Genji pulled himself back into The Cultist's lap, grappling the wool cloak. From the shoulders of the elder god, he swung onto the tentacles, scaling them like vines, then hoisted his weight through the gap in the roof.  
  
He had climbed higher peaks on his father's castle, and with no fewer eyes watching him, too. Years ago, his brother would accompany him on the rooftops, before he too joined the watchers below. Now his audience was not as harsh or unforgiving, he realized.  
  
“You will need this.” The Cultist reached, handing him a large stone with a smooth side.  
  
Genji was sure the people who built this shrine had better tools than this; the shrine was not ancient. Neat rows of tiles lined the roof, netted by moss and ivy, made for perfect slots to hold his weight. Looking around, he could see storm clouds moving southward, empty nests in the trees. Wind brushed his neck.  
  
With one hand steadying the nail, he drew in a breath and bashed the rock down, embedding the iron with two strokes. By the fifth nail he was breathing heavily.  
  
Pausing, Genji looked out at the lake. A stripe of sunlight, like a painter's first brush stroke, shimmered over the water's surface. He imagined walking across it and finding the tall gates of Hanamura welcoming him back. There were only mountains on the other side of the trees, he knew.  
  
His world had become so unhinged from that place any longing for it had disappeared. With each cold and lonesome night he wished for his old bed and companions less and less until the thought reviled him. With his father dead, Hanamura belonged to his brother and he would never welcome Genji's return.  
  
He wiped the sweat off his brow, turning his back on the thought. Returning home would be a mistake, Genji reminded himself, but anger simmered within him. He cracked several nails before finishing the repairs.  
  
Where he had patched up was still bare of tiles, but it would have to do for now. Genji slid down the edge, landing with ease. When he entered the shrine again, all of The Cultist's hands and tentacles were folded as though he had been praying.  
  
“Well done, Shimada,” The Cultist praised and Genji felt his heart twist. “Hard work has brought us success.”  
  
“We will need some way to drain the water, though,” he said, dragging out a submerged branch.  
  
“You can leave that to me,” The Cultist said, rising up on an impossible number of tentacles, stretching and weaving between one another. The water rippled, sweeping up in a massive wave, and crashed over him, knocking him against the wall.  
  
“You did that on purpose,” Genji growled. His fist kneaded against his spine. He was sure he could feel a bruise swelling where there was no skin. “I would have moved if you gave me the chance.”  
  
“I thought a swordsmen as swift as yourself would know to dodge in time. Or were you too busy staring?”  
  
Genji tugged the brim of his hat over his eyes. “I was not staring.”  
  
“You are no better at lying than I am,” he said, laughing. “I think I will miss arguing with you, Shimada.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
With one finger, The Cultist pointed to the light fanning over the horizon. “The worst of the storms have passed. This is your best chance to continue your journey.”  
  
“Right. My journey... ” he said, his voice empty of emotion. It would be an endless one. Where could he go where people would not be frightened or suspicious of him? No where reliable to sleep, no where to go without being stared at.  
  
“I want to thank you for fixing my shrine. We should meet up early tomorrow so I can send you off with a reward.”  
  
“But what about studying me?”  
  
“I am content with what I have learned from you, Shimada. I want you to be happy.”  
  
No matter how far he wandered, no matter how many bandages he coiled himself in, there was no escaping the thing he wanted to avoid the most. He could not be happy inside a body like this.  
  
“Will I see you then?”  
  
Genji agreed. Their parting was brief, and he watched The Cultist disappear in the morning mist. He returned to the shrine, wondering if the abyss was just as decrepit and somber.  
  
Cold wind sailed through barren trees, guiding migratory birds eastward. The world certainly felt emptier when he was alone. With nothing else to distract him, Genji unwrapped the glass pieces and laid them out in pairs. The sound of metal and glass clattered pleasantly on the stone floor.  
  
He admired them in the rising light, finding some to be etched with strange runes. The largest piece was flat and oblong, marred by years of exposure. He polished it, careful of the thin lines that were carved into its surface. An eye.  
  
He held the piece up in the afternoon light_. A god who cares more for the surface world than he admits_, Genji thought. For only a second, he caught sight of his own reflection, a short glimpse of his scarred skin, just a sliver below his brow.  
  
The glass shattered among the refuse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much to everyone who has been waiting for this chapter your patience is much appreciated. (^.^)

It was a new dream this time. The narrow bridge he stood on extended far beyond his vision, surrounded by emptiness. The world was blurry, unrecognizable and Genji was certain he was lost. Below him, the dark water slowed and stiffened, freezing over with ice.  
  
Above, the bare branches of trees snaked across a pale, unnatural sky, their shape as swollen and bloodshot as the veins in his eyes. They blurred with a faint redness.  
  
Cold as it was, no fog formed on his lips. His body was hollow, heavy and numb, and when he pressed his fingers to his chest the familiar beating of his heart was absent, replaced by the ghostly hum of a machine.  
  
Genji shuffled forward, clutching at the railing, certain his weight would tear through the boards at any moment. The flimsy structure trembled with even the slightest of motions. Something small tapped the board in front of him while he composed himself, a small formation puddling before soaking into the rotten wood. He drew closer, kneeling down to inspect.  
  
A single clot of blood. Crystals of ice quickly formed over it.  
  
It pattered over the bridge like rain, first slowly, then the full deluge. Droplets pelted him, trickling down his face like tears before freezing in place. He held still, too cold to brush them away.  
  
Light bloomed above, growing brighter and closer. Genji turned, keeping low on the swaying bridge. At first it was too blindingly bright to perceive, even when he shut his eyes it burned its lurid color through them.  
  
One last time he opened them, screaming in horror and in agony at the reflection beaming back. A lifeless iris rolled forward, its bulging veins bleeding out like rain. He melted beneath it, deafened by the droning thunder of his own heartbeat.  
  
A voice broke the emptiness. “Shimada?”  
  
The scream was still burning on his lips. The world flooded with color, washing the nightmare clean. He could still taste the acrid downpour. He held his hands out as if they were soaked.  
  
The Cultist blocked the light from the entrance, waiting for some response. “Are you alright?”  
  
Genji was propped up in the corner, where he usually fell asleep. The shock had fully awakened him, but the horrible memory of the nightmare sank deeper into his mind. He nodded his head, rubbing the numbness from his shoulder.  
  
“I could hear you from the shore. I knew you would be late but...” The Cultist looked over the scattered glass on the ground. “You never seem to sleep well, Shimada.”  
  
He adjusted the bandages that had loosened during the night, noticing the tightness in his chest, as though his ribs were locked together. Pain was the only state this body knew and he ignored it. “I overslept, if anything. We should have been gone by now.”  
  
“You're not concerned for yourself at all?”  
  
“I would only be burdened by doing so.”  
  
“I see.” The Cultist extended his hand, yet again, but Genji wobbled on his feet, leaning on the wall for support. “Before we part ways, I have this to ask you: What do you think you have become, if you are no longer human?”  
  
“I am not entirely sure. But knowing does not concern me. Even simply being this horrifies me too much to question.”  
  
The Cultist nodded. “I hope you are able to find the answer on your journey.”  
  
Genji ignored him, rolling up his bedding and loading it with the rest of his belongings onto his back. He shyly glanced behind himself, just to be sure The Cultist was following. “I'm not surprised you waited for me.”  
  
“I would have come knocking sooner or later. You would be lost in these woods without me. Now, there was a village not far from here once, though I'm not sure if it still exists after nine hundred years. Otherwise, going north will return you from where you came.”  
  
“This village might want nothing to do with me, if it exists at all,” he said, pondering.  
  
Trees quickly crowded behind them, distance pressed the lake into obscurity as they traveled. Genji did not ever turn to look back. He remained quiet while they walked, even when The Cultist spoke, Genji responded only briefly.  
  
Gray winter was creeping through the landscape, the cold draining the color from the earth, leaving dry and dull tones to remain. Empty branches thatched like thorny vines above. The mountains seemed further apart than The Cultist could remember, less trees than long ago, before his hibernation.  
  
Rough sheets of earth rose over their path, the trees dipping lower and lower beneath them. Exposed rock soared higher and wider, shielding this side of the valley.  
  
When they reached the peak, The Cultist stopped. “This is as far as I am willing to go. I would like to leave you with this. I did mention a reward, if you recall.”  
  
Tension gripped Genji by the shoulders. He averted his gaze. “It's not necessary. I cannot accept anything else from you. After all, I cannot repay you for saving my life.”  
  
“Please, do not feel ashamed for such things. It is important to me that you have it.” The package was wrapped in white cloth and tied with dry reeds. He placed it in Genji's hands, noticing how quickly his pulse changed.  
  
The Cultist watched for his reaction, hidden beneath a mask. The halo swiveled slightly, detecting bewilderment and intrigue, a light in his otherwise dull eyes.  
  
A gray leather book thick with wafer thin pages. The text on the front was incomprehensible, a language he had never seen.  
  
“The book is older than I am and written in multiple languages. Perhaps it will be a good companion while you travel. It might be worth a lot of money, should things become difficult for you.”  
  
Genji bowed, thanking him properly. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding back tears.  
  
The Cultist watched patiently, unsure if he should touch him now in this vulnerable moment, despite already knowing how he would react. Even if it meant spoiling their last meeting, he reached with his hand as Genji withdrew something from his bag.  
  
All nine eyes gathered, watching as Genji unwrapped layers of white bandage, revealing the pale glass wind chime.  
  
At first, The Cultist did not recognize it, glass peppered with cracks, its defining feature missing. The metal chimes had been polished. The decorative eye had been replaced with a shingle from the roof of the shrine. In the light its smooth surface seemed to shimmer a dull blue. There was a loop at the top to hang it where the wind could reach.  
  
“Ah,” he laughed gently, “I did notice the valley had been quiet recently. I am incredibly grateful for its return and for these repairs.” He turned the piece over in his hands, admiring the white ink eye painted on its surface.  
  
“I'm sorry. I allowed the original to shatter. I never meant to hide it from you, but I did not wish to return it to you in such miserable condition,” Genji admitted.  
  
“I'm pleased with your honesty. I truly admire the fine detail of your work,” The Cultist chimed. “Of course you are forgiven, my friend. Rather, I should be thanking you for once again amending my own negligence. I rarely care for anything above the abyss but you have given me many reasons to return to it. The valley is more alive than I can ever remember. I will cherish your gift greatly.”  
  
He could not see it, but a smile crossed Genji's face. A new sensation sparked in his ancient heart, joy and sorrow for their brief engagement. For The Cultist, simply knowing Genji was a gift.  
  
Sunlight sprinkled over conifer needles, the only green left in the valley. Frost pressed grass. Red berries shriveled thin. Genji remained lost in thought, still turning back and forth with every decision. For him, it was an unbearable silence as he formulated his thoughts.  
  
“I wanted to ask you something,” he said. Doubt circled behind his eyes. “I've had rather strange dreams since arriving here. They seem completely real, even when I don't know I'm dreaming. It feels as if I am trapped there, even when I try to wake up. Have you ever had a similar dream?”  
  
The Cultist blinked. “The last dream I had lasted nine hundred years. It was just as real as the world is now, but I was its conductor. It only ended when I chose to end it. I grew tired of it and only surveyed from a distance, but it was comfortable. I was merely waiting for some good reason to resurface.”  
  
“Ah, I see,” Genji muttered.  
  
“I hope you are able to sleep soundly from now on, my friend,” he said, warmth returning to his voice. He wished their hands would meet one last time. Were it not for Genji nothing would have awoken him from that dream. “Take care of yourself.”  
  
He nodded, knowing there was not enough in his supplies to get him to this village. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, pulling the bag up. “Thank you. For everything, I mean. For saving me. I should be going now.”  
  
“Be safe, my friend.”

  
  


Clouds covered the mountainscape, trapping light between the heavens and the high rocks. It scattered faintly on warm puffs of breath. He took breaks often, leaning on anything that could support his weight.  
  
An unshakable dread traveled beside him, a paranoia of returning uncertainty. He often peeked over his shoulder, waiting motionlessly for nothing. Genji could feel his own hollowness pitting in his heart and little else.  
  
The path quickly disappeared, overgrown with moss and rocks. For a while he traveled blindly, trusting the unstable terrain before climbing a sturdy tree to view the full landscape.  
  
The flames of sunset fulminated before him. Threads of smoke trailed in the distance, a promise that his journey now had a clear destination. Yet the tension never lifted from his nerves. He was certain he was walking into another dream. He imagined phantoms were waiting for him on the other side.  
  
Genji scaled down the tree, feeling as though the world were stretching apart, repelled by his very being. He was starting to feel faint and decided to set up camp instead. The rest of the journey, short as it might be, would have to wait for tomorrow. He still dreaded the thought of returning to society.  
  
He lined up stones for a fire. Striking the flint, small embers expanded into tall flames. For a moment Genji held still, looking at the metal tip of his finger, where a small patch of bandage had burned away. The beveled edges gleamed in the light. It looked unreal, almost doll-like, but it moved at will. The fingers curled into an iron palm. He closed his eyes, empty of feeling, even the fire's heat, glowing red upon his hand.  
  
It was almost more comfortable than feeling anything else. He had forgotten the paranoia of The Cultist's blinking halo, constantly watching over him. Genji thought about The Cultist's hand and the half healed wound that marred it. The dark exposed wires were not quite different from his own. They hadn't touched, but Genji remembered sharing something between them, a familiar pain, a common sensation.  
  
Finally he awoke from the daydream, pulling his hand from the flames. The intense red heat cooled and left a strange black resin behind.  
  
He opened the book to distract himself, but much of what was written was in a language he had never seen before. What little he could read was enigmatic. It told the story of an ancient king who summoned the four winds to create his kingdom, but in the end was torn apart by those very winds. Like beasts, they consumed his body until the earth was white with a thousand bones.  
  
Flipping through the pages drew his eyes away from the shadow growing within the firelight. Malaise shrouded him, shaking his attention from the book, to meet the trespasser. Genji nearly dropped the book in the flames, jumping back.  
  
The creature unfolded, standing upright in his view. Each segment of its body was constructed of corpses in various stages of decay. Hundreds of them, dismembered and meshed together, layer over layer. Rotting limbs flexed with new life, carrying the creature in an ungainly manner. He could smell the blood even before catching its unmistakable glisten.  
  
“How strange. This corpse is still breathing, still wishing to scream. Such a long time to writhe. Perhaps you were waiting for me,” its horrible voice croaked, the sound traveled through its long, crooked body. Its height rivaled the tree tops and Genji wondered how it had managed to sneak up on him.  
  
“You've interrupted me, actually. I'm not interested in having guests,” Genji said, unsheathing Ryū Ichimonji.  
  
“You crawled out from the valley. Yes, you reek of it,” the demon growled, so close he was crouching over the fire. Burnt flesh soured the air. Genji held his breath. The demon had no face yet he could tell it was smiling, so delighted by the thought of the valley that distracted him.  
  
“That abyss. Could it be that this feeble body can survive such depths? Where else could you have washed up from,” it pondered. “So many ancient corpses in that untapped well... I'm sure I'd feel right at home.”  
  
He had heard tales of such gruesome demons stalking battlefields and graveyards, scooping flesh from the earth to wear as a gory facade. In the growing darkness, he watched it crawl along the earth.  
  
“You'd only find trouble. The ancient god that resides there is no corpse. No demon could match his abilities.”  
  
It cackled. “Foolish little wretch. Demon or god, the word makes no difference. We are the same ilk, the same monsters your ancestors feared. Ours is an even playing field. You, however, aren't exactly human either. Perhaps the demon is you.”  
  
Genji balked. The foul stench of death wafted under his nose, turning his stomach. Above him a hand dangled, platemail clanking with the chill wind. Two black sockets peered through its chest.  
  
“I don't care what you think I am. However you see it, god or mortal, you are nothing like him. You will never reach the valley, much less the abyss, laden with corpses as you are.”  
  
“Such idiocy. I'll simply follow the scent through the mountains. How far could this bony little corpse have dragged itself?” It was coiling closer, keeping low to the ground.  
  
“You'll face my blade before you take one step closer to that valley. I'll behead you where you stand.”  
  
It cackled. Several decaying jaws slackened, joining in silently. “Which head will you sever? With so many, I might pull you apart before you could touch even one."  
  
A pale and stiff limb lurched out from its body, diving with open hands for its prey. Genji dodged, sending out a volley of embers as he jumped onto the demon's shoulder.  
  
The arm recoiled and life coursed like static through the putrefied bodies. Arms flailed when he crossed them, fingers stabbing at his ankles, then grasping and cracking apart at the tendons. One step shattered through the sternum of a torso, nearly throwing him over the edge.  
  
Any uncertainty had cleared now. Whether this was a dream or not, he would surely die fighting this demon. Death meant nothing to these wires and mechanisms inside him, but sacrifice drummed in his heart. There was only one he would willingly die for.  
  
Rotting eyes turned to meet him, peeking out from a dented helm. Finally, he could see, a small space of exposed bone. Beneath the dense layer of fresh tissue lay deeper mires of viscera and formless refuse from decades of decay. Raw patches hosted gardens of maggots.  
  
_My own doom_, he thought, raising his sword.  
  
Blood spewed forth. The demon thrashed and screamed, dust billowing up from its wound. Genji clung to the hilt, pulling back until the laceration was just wide enough to slip through.  
  
Its own arms tore into the skin, carving desperately into the rancid tunnel, while Genji sliced a path into the center of the demon. Finally, with his blade caught in the dense gore, he could feel the structure crumbling around him. Muffled shrieks passed through the walls of flesh while blood rained upon him.  
  
“Foul little insect. You think dismemberment will stop me? I'll simply pick the pieces up, wear them in a different fashion again. You,” it growled low, the voice rising as if from the grave, “and your demonic body shall be a fine garment.”  
  
Genji stabbed deeper, wielding both blades now, slashing through the mess, until he saw glints of fire light through the sockets of a scull. The creature moved about erratically, but Genji drove forward, his mark perfectly clear in the dark.  
  
Screams soared above the trees. Blood pattered down like spurts of rain, a barrage of limbs drumming the earth.  
  
The final stroke expelled him onto the ground, landing close beside his camp. He pulled himself up and tore through the darkness, rifling frantically for his most precious belongings. In his haste he could only grab his haori and fled through the trees, guessing his proximity to the path.  
  
Cold air coursed through him, thick and fluid like water. He held his eyes open, searching in the darkness for the familiar cliff side leading back to the valley. Moonlight remained sheathed in clouds.  
  
Genji ran until he could only limp. He rested for a moment, the air pulling on his chest as he gasped deeply for more. He felt nothing in his legs, but tension seized him, bridging first from his mind and into his heart.  
  
With only darkness, Genji felt as though he were in a dream, a pleasant one this time, or else already dead. In silence, he listened for the humming of the machine, or the thumping of his heart, but heard nothing.  
  
Remaining here only worsened his paranoia. The valley was just behind these mountains, he could be there by sunrise. He dragged his body onward, unsure if he would even make it to the lake. Other demons could be waiting in these mountains, drawn out by the scent of blood. Should he be waylaid, death was certain.  
  
Moonlight appeared on the thick fog, rolling over a clear path. Genji thought of the shrine, bleak and empty, and he longed for it. He wondered if The Cultist had returned to the bottom of the abyss, to slumber nine hundred more years.  
  
An ache coursed through him, a sensation splitting through his numb body.  
  
What was this place? The world felt so distant, he had forgotten to pay attention.  
  
The small song of a creek brought him back, their last meeting place. Yes, it was all coming back into focus, shaped by the pink glow of sunrise. Genji knelt, closing his eyes, frail ice breaking apart in his finger tips as he drank from the creek. Even as the icy water coursed through him, the emptiness pervaded, the burning chill was gone.  
  
He found his own footprints in the earth and followed them, until the landscape became familiar and the sound of slow waves greeted him.  
  
Gazing upon it, he could sense that the lake itself was different now too. The darkness rippled, the abyss spiraling with infinite life. For a while Genji only stared into its impenetrable depths, before testing the water.  
  
Cold, but untouched by ice.  
  
The feeling of loneliness returned. He imagined himself dissolving and floating along threads of foam until he was returned to the other side of the lake, where he had first met The Cultist. This was the worst part of the curse. The damage remained unchanged.  
  
Water funneled out between his fingers. Below him, his featureless reflection opened its own hand. From it, a shape emerged, as dark and towering as the monolith behind him. The halo rose, slowly, as though gathering from opposite corners of the lake.  
  
“Why did you turn back?” The Cultist asked, confusion pinching his brows.  
  
“There was something... beyond the mountains. I lost the path,” Genji said. “It was too dark in the woods to see what it was, but it spoke to me. It tried to kill me.”  
  
“I see. I should have known the instant I sensed that spirit within you,” The Cultist replied. “I was not the only ancient being to awaken after those nine hundred years. Dormant spirits have been set upon the world again.”  
  
“That monster... it wanted to find you.”  
  
“Yet you are the one who is bleeding,” he said, raising a tentacle to wipe the blood from his neck. This time Genji met his gaze without hesitation. “You raised your sword for my sake.”  
  
Genji nodded. “You are the only one I can trust now. There is no one else to rely on.”  
  
“Surely you will not stop seeking a better life for yourself. I would not begrudge you a chance to move on after this ordeal.”  
  
“With this body, I am shunned by humans and haunted by unspeakable nightmares. It feels as if I am trapped. But with you, at least I am safe. I am free to leave, as you said, and free to make the decision not to leave. Maybe that is a better life for me.”  
  
“If that is your choice, then you are welcome in this valley. The shrine is as you left it.”  
  
“Thank you, but I'm afraid I have made a mistake already. I left everything in the woods when I fled.”  
  
“You must have been frightened to have left so many possessions behind. That doesn't seem like you at all.”  
  
“It was something out of a nightmare. So many corpses all strung together, but its voice was hidden deep inside.”  
  
The Cultist pondered a moment. “A Harvester, no doubt. A living tower of decay. You are lucky to live after such an encounter.”  
  
“Still, I could not defeat it. Surely it would have followed me this way, or else it is lingering by my campfire, waiting for my return.” Genji's shoulders fell.  
  
“We can return to those woods later. You are well overdue to sleep.”  
  
Genji steadied himself upright, drawing the Dragonblade. He bit down on the numbness clinging to his circuits. “I won't sleep until that atrocity is dead. I'll burn every limb into ash before I lay down my sword. The dragon never surrenders.”  
  
“Why are you doing this? You are needlessly sacrificing yourself for my sake, at the cost of your own life. I cannot accept that.”  
  
He lowered his arm. “No, it's not like that...”  
  
“I can defend myself against any demon or spirit that threatens this valley. Yet I am always defending you from yourself more often than anything else,” he said imploringly. “You said you trusted me. Then, please listen. It is better to protect this body rather than to destroy it with negligence.”  
  
Light trailed across the Dragonblade, resting at his side. “This body is not mine.”  
  
“You must accept it as your own. You will heal if you show yourself compassion. That is the first step of your journey towards recovery. Only once you have accepted this body will you find yourself again.”  
  
“Myself,” he muttered softly. “How can I be sure any of this is real? Who have I been this entire time?”  
  
The Cultist took Genji's hand, holding the blade parallel with his gaze. “That answer does not lie in your memory. You cannot become what you once were. You must rebuild yourself.” He gently nudged Genji towards the shore. “For now, you should rest, Shimada. Let me take you to the shrine.”  
  
He pulled away from his touch, lingering, as though waiting for the best decision to manifest before him. Amid lethargy, Genji realized the decision was his own. “Okay. That's fine.”  
  
The Cultist shrank as they withdrew from the water. He was even in height with Genji, but with a smaller build. He wondered why such a powerful being would choose a modest form, until he considered that it was not a choice at all.  
  
The shrine felt more inviting though it remained cold and dim as ever. With a flash, The Cultist held flames in his palms, flooding the shrine in warmth and light. He sank down in the far corner, where Genji once stored his belongings, beckoned to him.  
  
“Perhaps you would at least enjoy the company of a friend. It would be cruel to leave you with nothing,” The Cultist said, crossing his legs.  
  
“You don't have to do that. I can't feel anything as it is,” Genji explained.  
  
“Not true. Sensations will feel real again. Finer nerves need healthy circuits to grow and you are still healing. Be patient with yourself while you are adjusting,” The Cultist said. He had always worried this would happen, long before Genji insisted on leaving. “I want to support you as I did before. My stature may have changed but I am always willing to accommodate.”  
  
“Are you only this size outside of the lake?” he asked.  
  
“Yes and no. I can always feel the abyss below me, its power is always within reach, but I must strain to grasp it. The connection is stronger in water.”  
  
“What is it like that deep under water?” Genji said, sitting down beside him.  
  
“For you it would be too dark to see and too much pressure to stand upright. Even a metal body would be crushed. But I can see for miles across the abyssal plain and I have adapted to its environment just like any of its natives. I did the same thing in order to survive here, too. I have not always looked like this.”  
  
“You mean this is not the only body you have had?”  
  
“This is merely one of many phases.”  
  
Genji noticed the way faint light danced in each iris, a full spectrum of golds and greens spiraled in a wave across the halo. Light was still peeking in through the doorway. A cobweb in the corner trembled with the wind. He felt less hollow, less broken. When he was done staring he tempted one last question.  
  
“Will you tell me what you are? It might be a long time before I myself know what _I_ am and I can't do that alone,” Genji explained. “But I don't even know your name.”  
  
“What I am has changed so many times I have lost the need to assign it a name. To my friends I am known as Zenyatta and I count you among them. You may call me Zenyatta.” The tentacles on his face curled inward, the reaction still so natural to him. A smile.  
  
Genji drew closer, draping himself cat-like over The Cultist's knee.  
  
“Zenyatta,” he drowsily repeated.  
  
Demon or god, it made no difference to him. The Cultist had saved him, shown him compassion even after he betrayed their agreement, after the ungratefulness he had shown him. Tomorrow would be better. He wanted to wake up as a different person, but still have Zenyatta as his friend.  
  
That night he merely drifted along the shore of unconsciousness, swaying in an out of a dream. The cold was bearable, the numbness comforting. Though everything was jet black, he could feel the tide gently ushering him to the shore.  
  
Genji focused, letting the hum of the abyss envelope him.


	4. Chapter 4

His gaze followed the moon as it traveled across the darkening heavens. Genji laid still, as though frozen, suspended by the water of a natural hot spring tucked into the side of the mountain. He watched the lidded eye climb out from the thorny woods until it hung perfectly over the springs.  
  
Warm vapor fogged against his metal jaw. Water gently tossed against him, only soothing him when he did not think about it, beaming his reflection back.  
  
He let his mind wander, sensing some modicum of pain evaporate in the heat. He conjured a starry twilight when he closed his eyes and in a moment they were there above him.  
  
That only made him restless. Genji sat up and swam to the edge, lifting himself onto the slate stones.  
  
The Cultist had left him with a lantern but nothing to strike a flame, promising his return before dark. Genji had agreed to remain here while he waited, though his patience was transforming into anxiousness. He knew he would only be lost in these woods without The Cultist.  
  
Tall shadows turned the only path into an expanding tunnel of trees and thorns.  
  
Genji stayed by the bank, and reached for the hilt of his sword, hidden beneath a pile of robes and bandages. He pulled it closer, popping it out from its sheath with only his thumb to distract himself for the moment.  
  
The blade was split by a silver wave. Emerald threads covered the hilt, twisted and folded into the traditional pattern. He was more interested in the crossguard, a rectangular shape carved with the image of the twin dragons, the crest of the Shimada clan.  
  
These were the greatest and most valuable treasures he owned, but they were merely copies. The originals were made for his brother, Genji remembered.  
  
Cold wind bit into his chest, sinking through the exposed coils and wires, burning and numbing in one clean slice. The mechanisms halted, taking the air in his lungs hostage. This phantom sensation reached through him, dissolving relay signals from his nerves and wires.  
  
The soothing water seemed to tug at him, but he did not respond. Genji's vision clouded. When he relented to the feeling, something foreign took his place, and he could not recognize himself from the thinnest droplet of vapor.  
  
Nine shadows rolled out from under the moon, their pupils wide. Genji ducked, taking cover beneath the water and steam.  
  
“I hope I did not keep you waiting long,” The Cultist said, appearing from the dense woods.  
  
Genji rubbed the dryness from his eyes, dizzying himself. “I wasn't even thinking about it. You said you wouldn't sneak up on me.”  
  
“Ah, again, my deepest apologies. Please, take your time."  
  
He stepped away and turned his back. He let the image of Genji's eyes entertain him, the way they floated on the surface like cold and joyless lotuses. He could still sense them boring into his back, sharper than steel. The halo fell among the slate rocks, the eyes lidded with interlocking sheets. Moonlight shimmered on the metal. “Or perhaps I should wait for you at the shrine.”  
  
“It's alright. I don't trust myself to remember the way back,” he said, lifting his body out of the water. The cables in his legs flexed unnaturally.  
  
Without even shifting, The Cultist reached with a tentacle to deliver Genji's belongings gently upon the rocks. “I searched the area quite thoroughly but I'm not sure if I found everything. Your campsite was in ruins.”  
  
Fresh chills rattled his spine. “Oh. Thank you. What else did you see?”  
  
“You mean the Harvester? Don't worry about that. It's wounded. It won't pursue anything for a while.”  
  
Genji dried off and began wrapping the bandages methodically, watching his body vanish beneath the pale linen. Lightly, he pressed against the seam in his chest. He had experienced that intense emptiness before, but never so suddenly. The shock still gripped him.  
  
His left arm worked alone in his mind, quickly and efficiently, sure that Zenyatta was becoming impatient by now. Genji briefly checked behind himself, but The Cultist had not moved. All nine eyes lay among the pebbles, their lids shut tight.  
  
He threw his clothes over the bandages and pulled his hair back, realizing how long it had grown. Dull black strands clung to his fingers.  
  
“You can look now,” he said, hauling his bag onto his shoulders. “Sorry I made you wait.”  
  
The Cultist rose from a meditative state, hovering with legs crossed. The lantern sat propped upright in his lap, its small flame glowing brighter. “No need to apologize. I understand you have made a habit out of wearing these bandages.”  
  
“Ah, something like that.”  
  
“You aren't bleeding anymore, yet you insist on wearing them.”  
  
Genji pulled his sleeves down. “You're right, but I prefer it this way.”  
  
“Comfort is something all creatures desire. I understand. Was everything alright while I was gone?”  
  
The dreadful tunnel melted away into trees and brush as they walked. Gold light glazed the edges of branches and needles, as though they walked with the sun hidden in their possession.  
  
“It was fine. Nothing disturbed me.”  
  
“Then you were able to relax there for a while?” he asked. “It must be strange to feel heat for the first time with this new body.”  
  
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess I got used to it,” Genji answered sheepishly. He wished to tell Zenyatta that looking upon his own body was inherently stressful, and that the only relaxation he could find was distancing himself from it. He would not bring himself to ruin their conversation. “It was nice to wash my hair though.”  
  
“That's good. You look much more relaxed. I'm glad you are beginning to feel sensations again.”  
  
They walked the wooded path in silence after that. As always, The Cultist led the way, his halo tilting back to be sure Genji was nearby. He would stop occasionally and gather sticks, no doubt for a fire. The Cultist would slow his pace, making sure the lantern's glow could always reach him.  
  
It was dark by the time they reached the shrine. He piled the branches in a corner, letting them dry for the evening while The Cultist hung the lantern on a hook.  
  
They had spent their daylight hours hauling various items out of storage and up the narrow hill. Still, nothing would ever make the shrine appear impressive. The wooden table and bench were warped and rotted. Only one of three terracotta jars did not crumble into dust, but still bore several rigid cracks. The iron cauldron was old, too, but still in excellent condition, smaller and heavier than he remembered. They carried it together, with Zenyatta leading and bearing most of the weight.  
  
Though the whole room smelled strongly of lake water, the shrine felt less vacant. They sensed the same shift within their surroundings, as it transformed into a place that felt like home.  
  
“I don't think I can ever thank you enough after all this,” Genji said, setting his bag down to assess its remaining contents. “I didn't think it would be so easy to get this all back.”  
  
“You must have wounded the creature quite seriously. There was a lot of debris, it was hard to tell what was yours or-”  
  
“It's okay. What ever is here is fine,” he said, laying out his canteen, cooking utensils, goggles, and his bedroll, peppered with scorch marks.  
  
A scrap of parchment unraveled with his old map- a piece torn from the largest scroll in Hanamura castle. Dark ink dappled with dry blood. Genji froze. He had almost forgotten. His tent had been crushed, yet so many delicate pieces remained unscathed.  
  
“And this, of course,” Zenyatta said, producing the mysterious leather book. “How fortunate that the embers did not catch. You must have been awake all night reading.”  
  
Its edges were scorched slightly, discolored by smoke and heat, but the old pages were undisturbed.  
  
Genji received it, still embarrassed by his prideful departure and humiliating return. “There's not much I can read, but I am still grateful for its return.”  
  
“I'm glad it is back with its rightful owner. Have you read enough to piece together the book's theme?”  
  
“Theme?” he asked, visibly dismayed. “Well, no, actually.”  
  
“Not to worry. It is a collection entitled 'A History of Miracles'.”  
  
His brow furrowed. “Miracles? That's not what I read.”  
  
“Ah, what did you read then?”  
  
Genji left his eyes on the discolored leather cover, tracing the strange text as though he were its long dead author. He envisioned the book in flames, fire falling through his hands, but felt nothing.  
  
“It was a story about a king who was betrayed by the four winds and his kingdom was left surrounded by his bones,” he explained.  
  
“Yes, I know that one. He was granted immense power and received kingship, but not without a price,” The Cultist said, the eyes of his halo nodding. His hands seem to keep them busy, as though conducting their whimsical movement. “Power requires sacrifice and death is only the sacrifice of the body. Something must be lost to be gained and a kingdom requires a foundation, of course.”  
  
“A kingdom is not a miracle,” Genji argued. “Any death is still a tragedy. For you, such a sacrifice might mean nothing, but for humans it is the end of everything."  
  
The Cultist nodded. “This kingdom and its founder preceded human civilization by hundreds of thousands of years. No great dream such as kingship can be achieved without sacrifice. To make one's dream come true- that is the miracle.”  
  
“So this is what you are left to think about for nine hundred years. You sound like my brother.” Genji slid the torn scroll between the pages and set the book inside his bag.  
  
“Yes, I was bored long before my hibernation. If you would like, I could translate the chapters aloud to you.”  
  
“For now, I would rather forget about miracles.”  
  
“I understand. I'd prefer to hear you talk any way.”  
  
Genji laughed. “I'm tired of hearing myself, too.”  
  
“I've suffered with myself far longer than you. You are the most interesting company I have had in a very long time,” Zenyatta insisted. “You must have some unique stories from your travels.”  
  
“Not really. Most villages I passed through forced me out. Very few people were willing to shelter me, much less speak to me. I spent the entire journey alone. Nothing eventful happened,” he explained.  
  
He couldn't pry his thoughts from the Harvester. Certainly nothing like that had occurred during that vulnerable and arduous expedition, filling him with dreadful relief, that such an encounter could have crossed him.  
  
“Such shameful behavior. Mortals are often cowardly, I'm afraid,” The Cultist said, looking over the bandages. He remembered the way they clung to his gaunt body, barely guarding the wires and coils from suspicion. It had been little more than a week since Genji had arrived here, and already he looked so different. Happier, maybe, Zenyatta thought.  
  
He nodded. As his expression became more distant, his mind abandoned its focus, sending his gaze towards no particular destination. “I'm glad it's over. Even if that means I am just a coward hiding from the rest of the world.”  
  
Zenyatta studied him, witnessing his gradual exit from the room, while never moving an inch. He forgot how suddenly Genji could change his demeanor, often incited by a poor choice of words, yet he still wanted to convey to him an understanding of how it felt to leave his own body in pursuit of comfort.  
  
“I wouldn't say that. You have shown more bravery than any human I have met,” he said, correcting himself, “It was rude of me to generalize.”  
  
“It's okay,” Genji said. “All that bravery was just recklessness and stupidity.”  
  
Zenyatta laughed. “Hah, yes, that may be true, but you are still alive. Recklessness and stupidity have brought you some success. You said you would never return to human society, but I'm sure your family is waiting for your return.”  
  
“What? No, my family is- I mean, I was exiled,” he said, rather conclusively.  
  
“I see. To be rejected by your own family- that is horribly cruel,” Zenyatta said, his voice falling. “I'm ashamed to hear how my work has destroyed your life. I'm so sorry. It was never meant to be used in such a way.”  
  
Genji looked away, feeling guilty himself. “You don't have to apologize. It had nothing to do with this.” His left hand swiped across his torso.  
  
“You've suffered far more than you deserve, my friend,” Zenyatta said, rising from his position to set a fire beneath the cauldron. “You have a long life ahead of you. I hope the grief you have suffered does not impede your own happiness.”  
  
The prospect of a long life never appealed to him, perhaps even less now that this curse had claimed him. Happiness was a worthy pursuit, he knew, but the happiness he once sought only brought contempt and disgrace from his family. Any forgiveness would be undeserved, he thought, but there would never be forgiveness. He wore his own sins in place of skin and bones.  
  
Genji curled his fingers towards his palms, resting them on his knees. With his head bowed, he spoke, “Thank you.”  
  
“You are more than welcome, my friend. Even for me, happiness is a rare and wonderful gift,” The Cultist said, busying himself by crushing ginger into the vegetable stock they had prepared earlier. In truth, he was merely trying to disguise the guilt growing in his mind.  
  
A blend of fragrances wafted from the cauldron, while mountain parsnips, leeks and potatoes stewed in the simmering broth. He added the flayed grass carp once the brew was boiling.  
  
“Aren't you going to eat?” Genji asked, sitting down with a full bowl.  
  
“I have no need for such a task,” Zenyatta explained. “This meal is for you, after all.”  
  
“Oh,” he answered, nearly speechless and quite embarrassed by the blush crawling over his mask. “Thank you. You are still too kind to me.”  
  
“This is no trouble at all. I still think of you as my guest, even if you consider this home. I would never leave you to fend for yourself,” he said graciously. Will you be comfortable for the evening?”  
  
He nodded, thanking him and bowing again.  
  
“I will see you in the morning, my friend,” The Cultist said, excusing himself.  
  
He was not much farther down the path when Genji called out to him, appearing in the shrine's doorway. He extended the lantern, trotting closer.  
  
“You forgot this,” he said, making no effort to sound less concerned. “I know you won't get lost, but you might need it tonight.” He knew how foolish it sounded, but he could not withhold his true intentions, which seemed to overwhelm him.  
  
“It should stay with you in the shrine. You will be glad you have it when you decide to pick up 'A History of Miracles' again,” Zenyatta suggested. “You can let it burn out. I won't mind.”  
  
Genji's shoulders fell, not quite sure what reaction he expected. “I'm sorry for delaying you. It was stupid of me to think such a thing.”  
  
“That's alright. Get some rest, Shimada,” he said.  
  
He nodded, muttering a 'good night' before hurrying back to the shrine. He held onto that shame for the rest of the night, knowing that he had done it out of loneliness but he was too stubborn to admit it. Even eating did not distract him from it and he lay awake the entire night.  
  
At midnight, he pulled 'A History of Miracles' from his bag, only retrieving it for the piece of scroll folded away inside. This was the only evidence of the trauma from that night, the wrinkles marking where he had clutched it in his dying hand, other than the wound that split his chest from the vessel that had revived him. The bed of wires, steel bones and brackets, and pulsing electricity were the only things keeping him alive now.  
  
Genji wept quietly, wishing he could think about anything else. He had nearly lost these irreplaceable items, and though he was truly grateful for their return, he realized the agony and torment that was forever embedded within them. Even his swords, once just as much a part of his body as any limb or organ, were just poor facsimiles.  
  
No different from the miracle living within him.


End file.
